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Copyright, 1SS7, 
by 

U Lothrop & Company, 







CONTENTS. 



Paoe. 



Taia, of Thebes 
Thothmes, of Karnak 
Nan-tze, of Ngan-king 
Chum-sin, of Kin-yuen 
Calyck, of Athens 
Tvr'iveus, of Corinth 
Claudia, of Rome 
Vespasian, of Rome 
Hadasseh, of Tiberius 
Gamaliel, of Jerusalem 
Gwench'lan, of Soissons 
Friedmunda, of Chalons 
Ranghilda, of Lunde 
Sigurd, of Jomsburg 
Zahra, of Bagdad 
Abulcasen, of Damascus 
Ltppo, of Florence 
guistina, of ferrara 
Gideon, of Tavistock 
Audrey, of York 
Gabrielle, of Toulon 
Andre, of Paris 
Jonathan, of Boston 
Dorothy, of Philadelphia 



ISOO B. I . 

1500 B. C 

SOO B. C. 

800 B. C 

4OO B. C. 

400 B. C. 

50 B. C. 

44 B. C. 

A. I). 90 

A. I). 70 

A. D. 475 

A. D. 475 

A. D. 85O 

A. D. 85O 

A. D. 1 150 

A. D. I 150 

A. D. 1434 

A. D. I434 

A. D. 1644 

A. I). 1644 

A I). I72O 

A. D. 1720 

A. I). l8 13 

A. H. [Si 2 



17 
IS 

2 3 
24 
29 

3° 
35 
■6 

4' 
42 
47 
48 
S3 
54 
59 
60 

65 

66 



77 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page. 

Taia, of Thebes 14 ^ 

Thothmes, of Karnak 15^ 

Nan-tze, of Ngan-king 20 1/ 

Chom-sin, of Kin-yuen 21 y 

Calyce, of Athens 26 1/ 

Tyrtteus, of Corinth 27 y 

Claudia, of Rome 32 / 

Vespasian, of Rome 33 

Haoasseh, of Tiberius 38 J 

Gamaliel, of Jerusalem 39 Y 

Gwench'lan, of Soissons 44 v 

Friedmunda, of Chalons 45 

Ranghilda, of Lunde 50 

Sigurd, of Jomsburg 51 

Zahra, of Bagdad 56 

Abulcasf.n, of Damascus 57 ** 

Lippo, of Florence • 62 

guistina, of ferrara 63 

Gideon, of Tavistock 68 v 

Audrey, of York 69 

Gabrielle, of Toulon 74 

Andre, of Paris 75 

Jonathan, of Boston So 

Dorothy, of Philadelphia Si 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/youthintwelvecenOOblak 



YOUTH IN TWELVE CENTURIES 



TAIA, OF THEBES. 

I500 B. C. 

Under the temple's shadow 

Within her palace gates, 
The golden snood of the virgin 

Binding her thick black hair, 
Calling her silken litter, 

Taia the Theban waits ; 
While hymning of priest and maiden 

Soars through the quiet air, 
Rising to Isis, the Giver, 
As they march to the Sacred River. 

Soon with the long train moving 

Over the waiting lands, 
Through waving tufts of palm-trees 

Cooling the springs below, 
Where the shade of the Sphinx falls grateful 

Over the burning sands, 
To their paeans of joy will be added 

Her accents sweet and low ; 
Rising to Isis, the Giver, 
As they march to the Sacred River. 



THOTHMES, OF KARNAK. 

1500 B. C. 

Brtng forth the chariot, Strabo, 

And deck the steeds with pride ; 
To-day amid my father's train 

In princely garb I ride ! 
No more for me our boyish games 

Or comrades' jocund call, 
No more with fleet foot in the race 

To chase the flying ball — 
Who once puts youth's bright garments on, 

Lays childhood's joy aside. 

Now for the clash of shield and lance, 

The shock of legions hurled 
On gory fields, till victory rests 

With standard fair unfurled ! 
Thou dread Osiris ! who doth watch 

Above the deeds of men, 
Inspire my soul and nerve mine arm 

Till in me lives again 
The spirit that raised Egypt up 

As Mistress of the World. 




THOTHMES, OF KARNAK. 



NAN-TZE, OF NGAN-KING. 

800 B. C. 

To wander in the gloaming 

By the Yangtse's yellow sands 
To fret the shining plumage 

Of my pheasant's golden wing, 
To hear the bittern croaking 

Across the marshy lands, 
Or mid the banyan shadows 

To hear the bulbul sing, 

— What else is left to fill 

A maiden's heart and hands ? 

Roses of love and pleasure 

My brother's coming greet ; 
Glad for his hand's strong clasping 

The warrior's glory waits, 
Over his fortunate pathway 

The sun shines fair and sweet, 
Joy of the future beckons 

And opes her welcoming gates, 

— What path but sorrow lies 
Before a maiden's feet ? 

17 



CHOM-SIN, OF KIN-YUEN. 

SOO B. C. 

Little I care for the glamour 

And fame of princely deeds ! 
Little I care for the glory 

And tinsel of soldiers' joys ! 
Rather I'd chase the 'ball 

With the noisy chattering boys ; 
Or measure my gaudy treasures 

Of pipes and kites and toys, 
Lying in golden sunshine 

On mats of rushes and reeds ! 

Plague on the ruby button 

And peacock feathers of state! 
— When murderous hordes of the Mongols 

From over the mountains come, 
Striking with barbarous strength 

In fury savage and dumb, 
Let others go forth to meet them 

With spear and dagger and drum, 
I'd rather look out on the battle 

From behind the sheltering gate ! 





mmmmam 

NAN-TZE, OF NGAN-KING. 




CHOM-SIN, OF KIN-YUEN. 



CALYCE, OF ATHENS. 

4OO B. C. 

Under the marble arch 

Of the inner court remote, 
Harking the pealing music 

That rings in the joy-bells' note, 
While in the street without, 

And the thronging market-places, 
They welcome the crowned lord, 

Victor of games and races, 
With surging thunders of sound 

And clamor of hoarse glad throat, 

— What is it all to me, 

Barred from life's tumult sweet, 
Hearing but echoes of all 

That passes in hall or street ; 
Ah ! but for one swift glance 

Where his glorious path rejoices 
Through arches triumphant of palm 

And jubilant greeting of voices ! 
To drop one red, red rose 

To be crushed by his conquering feet 
' 23 



TYRT^EUS, OF CORINTH. 

4OO B. C. 

[Outside the Sacred Grove of Jupiter.) 

O day beloved of gods and men, 

In happy omen rise ! 
Smoke on the altar-stone of Zeus, 

O joyous sacrifice ! 
For now within the Sacred Grove 

The chanting priests proclaim 
The opening of those lofty rites, 

Whose end shall give to fame 
Another hero, and to Greece 

One more immortal name ! 

See how the thronging athletes press 

The fair Olympian meads ; 
Boeotian wrestlers ; and the straight 

Swift race that Sparta breeds ; 
Strong charioteers of Thessaly ; 

And Thracian spearsmen brave ; 
— - Ah ! if but once mine ardent foot 

Might press the stadium's pave 

What higher gift of gods or men 

Could hope or glory crave ! 
24 




CALYCE, OF ATHENS. 




TYR'ITEUS, OF CORINTH. 



CLAUDIA, OF ROME. 

50 B. C. 

dawn of the gods beloved 
How rarely thy coming thrills — 

To-day we go to the villa 

On the crest of the Alban Hills! 
Freely I change for its freedom 

The splendor of court and hall, 
The splash of the marble fountain, 

The glow of the pictured wall, 
The mirrors of shining silver — 

Gladly I leave them all. 

1 tire of the glittering sameness 
That marks the splendid town ! 

But there, through golden vineyards, 

Fair cascades sparkle down, 
Branches of cypress and olive 

Tangle the sunshine still, 
The wood-doves coo in the branches, 

And sweet leaves dance at will 
To the hymn of the Vestal Virgins 

On the beautiful Alban Hill. 

. 29 



VESPASIAN, OF ROME. 
44 b. c. 

" Come forth ! Come forth ! my Titus," 

The young Vespasian calls : 
u Nor rest, nor sleep, have place to-night 

Within the city's walls ; 
The gates are choked with crowding, 

The air is rent with cries, 
A thousand torches' flaming light 

Defy the gloomy skies 
Where the great Consul, done to death 

By Brutus' dagger, lies ! 

" Drop from your hand the unrolled chart, 

And fling the stylus by ; 
What are such teachings worth to us 

When such a man could die ! 
More than all fame their lore can bring, 

Give me to say instead 
— What time the thin white frosts of age 

Shall rest upon my head — 
* A boy, in Rome, mine eyes once looked 

Upon our Caesar — dead i ' 




MMMMl^jM 



CLAUDIA, OF ROME. 




VESPASIAN, OF ROME. 



HADASSEH, OF TIBERIAS. 

A. D. 9O. 

Come to the house-top, Rachel ! 

The waning day droops low ; 
Wrap round thy braids the Tyrian scarf, 

For cool the night winds blow ; 
And bring thy light stringed nebel 

To aid the sad sweet song 
That sings in every Jewish heart 

Its tale of grief and wrong — 
While o'er the lake Gennesareth 
The red sun sinks to meet its death ! 

Bid from the inner terrace 

Amrah, the bond-maid, bring 
Fresh wheaten cakes and honey. 

Clear water from the spring ; 
Here we will take our evening meal, 

And rest, till floating by 
The pale moon sails her magic boat 

Across the deep blue sky, 
And in the lake Gennesareth 
The red sun sinks to meet its death ! 
35 



GAMALIEL, OF JERUSALEM. 

A. D. 70. 

O YERUSHALAIM the Holy ! 

The crown of thy peace is fled ! 
Under the yoke of the spoiler 

The pride of thy life hath sped ! 
Low are the climbing arches 

Of thy Temple wondrous fair, 
Like a sheaf of silver fountains 

That rose through the sunlit air, 
And under the wreck of its glory 

The priests of thy faith lie . dead ! 

From the place of our power and gladness, 

Whither we go who knows ? 
From halls of our fathers to bondage ; 

From arms of our mothers to blows ; 
To chains and thirst and hunger ; 

To toil on the strangers' shore ; 
To serve at the Roman's table ; 

To bend at the Roman's oar — ■ 
Jehovah ! Thou God of the Mighty ! 

Remember thy people's woes ! 
36 




HADASSEH, OF TIBERIAS. 




GAMALIEL, OF JERUSALEM. 



GWENCH'LAN, OF SOISSONS. 

A. D. 475. 

Trained for the chase and the foray ; 

Fearless in clanger and woe ; 
Eager for strife and for glory ; 

Cruel to slave and to foe; 
Light is his foot in the dance 

When cymbal and harp-notes call, 
But swift from his hand in battle 

The rain of the spear-points fall — 
Hoch ! for the son of Chararic ! 

Hoch ! for Gwench'lan the Gaul ! 

Eyes of the hawk look forth 

From under his martial crest ; 
Steel is his sinewy arm ; 

Fire is the heart in his breast ; 
Hither the silver armilla, 

And hither the chain of gold, 
For young is the boy in years, 

But valor hath made him old — 
Hoch ! for the son of Chararic ! 

Hoch ! for Gwench'lan the Bold ! 
4 1 



FRIEDMUNDA, OF CHALONS. 

A. D. 475. 

Llantildis ! Llantildis ! 

Now wherefore dreaming there, 
While onward to the Field of Mars 

Press Jarl and Prince and Frere ! 
Doth our dull life so many strands 

Of joy and brightness hide 
Thou canst forego so brave a sight 

As when the warriors ride, 
At joust and tournay playing, 

To silver trumpets braying ! 

Nay ! never heed thy tresses ; 

The braids are smooth and bright ; 
Snatch thy long mantle from the bench 

And set thy veil aright ; 
Nor care to-day if in the web 

No single stitch is set, 
Nor if against the cage's bars 

Thy pet birds moan and fret, 
— But haste where sword-strokes flashing, 

Beat time on bronze shields clashing ! 
42 




gwench'lan, of soissons. 




FRIEDMUNDA, OF CHALONS. 



RANGHILDA, OF LUNDE. 

A. D. 85O. 

Look at my bracelets, Gudrun, 

Heavy with gold and pearl, 
Snatched from the dead white arm 

Of a timid Danish girl ! 
And here be necklets of silver 

And tunics of silken sheen, 
Torn from the regal treasure 

Of some pallid Eastern queen, 
And brought from red fields of slaughter 
To the feet of the Sea King's daughter ! 

Cover the floor with rushes, 

Kindle the fires in the hall, 
Hide with the broidered arras 

The beams of the smoke-stained wall ; 
Freyga ! Mother of Heroes ! 

Thanks for thy bounteous hand, 
That wins for us spoil and glory 

On the shore of the stranger's land, 
And brings from the blood-stained water 
New joy for the Sea King's daughter! 
47 



SIGURD, OF JOMSBURG. 

A. D. 85O. 

Down through the Drontheim fiord 

Sail the ships lightly, 
On their decks shield and sword 

Shine, gleam brightly, 
Viking and hero stand, 

Armor on shoulder, 
Stern eyes and stature grand 

Awe the beholder — 
How doth my heart beat high, 
With them to fight or die ! 

When flows the mead at night 

And scalds are singing- 
Deeds of the Norseman's might 

To harp-strings ringing, 
If in the song of fame, 

Of good blows telling, 
I could but hear my name 

In wild shouts swelling — 
Thor ! for that moment high, 
Glad at thy feet I'd die ! 




RANGHILDA, OF LUNDE. 




SIGURD, OF JOMSBURG. 



ZAHRA, OF BAGDAD. 

A. D. I I 50. 

Now who hath seen my Zahra ? 

Too long" hath she been roaming, 
And dancing to the castanets 

Beneath the date tree's shade ; 
Here waits the empty water-jar 

And soon will fall the gloaming — 
But who can put a woman's head 

On shoulders of a maid, 
Or teach that life's true measure, 
Is Duty first — then Pleasure ! 

Oh daughter, little daughter ! 

Here lies the wheat for kneading, 
And there thine idle shuttle 

Rests empty by the loom ; 
O who hath seen my Zahra 

Or whither is she speeding ? 
Alas ! 'tis hard to look for fruit 

When youth is all abloom, 
Or teach that life's best measure, 
Is Duty first — then Pleasure! 

53 



ABULCASEN, OF DAMASCUS. 

A. D. 1 1 50. 

Fleet foot of the desert ! 

Thou steed of my pride ! 
'Tis the voice of thy master 

That calls to his side ! 
With the star of the prophet 

Set fair on thy brow, 
And thy swift step as light 

As the bird on the bough, 
Like the flight of an arrow 

Afar let us ride. 

The crescent grows dim 

As the cross waxeth bright, 
The sun of our people 

Is sinking in night ; 
Still, still, as we bound 

O'er the sand of the plain, 
My steel at my side 

And my hand on thy rein, 
I find the lost glory ! 

I feel the old might ! 

54 




ZAHRA, OF BAGDAD. 



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ABULCASEN, OF DAMASCUS. 



LIPPO, OF FLORENCE. 

a. d. 1434. 

Blue is the wonderful sky 

Of Firenze, the fairest of cities, 

Clamor of voices and bells 

Rings through the jubilant air, 

Banners are hung on the walls, 
Poets are singing their ditties, 

While Cosmo the Medici rides 
With his retinue, lordly and fair, 
Through welcoming shouts of the square ! 

And out to the farthest gates 

Surge laughter and music blended, 

And into the darkest lane 

Creeps something of sunshine and glee; 

Nay i let them talk as they will 

Of times and of men more splendid, 

Never were days of the world 
More wondrous than those I see, 
With their promise of glory for me ! 
59 



GUISTINA, OF FERRARA. 

A. D. I434. 

Here in the convent garden, 

With pencil and with books, 
I commune with the glory 

And the souls of other times ; 
I read delight and beauty 

In nature's loving looks, 
And weave my maiden fancies 

Across my poet's rhymes — 
Here in the convent garden 

With pencil and with books. 

And if sometimes like summer clouds 

Across a summer sky, 
Vague longings, — swift as shadows, 

Across the sunshine- — creep, 
To join the laughing maidens 

Who carol dancing by, 
As on the bright campagna 

They watch the browsing sheep — 
'Tis but a passing summer cloud 

Below a summer sky ! 
60 




LIPPO, OF FLORENCE. 




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GUISTINA, OF FERRARA. 



GIDEON, OF TAVISTOCK. 

A. D. 1644. 

A plague take all this fooling 
Of musty books and schooling, 
'Tis well enough for coward folk 

Whose blood is pale and poor ! 
And out on all their preaching 
Of learning and of teaching ! 
'Tis honor lifts the gentleman 

Above the paltry boor — 
Red honor, snatched from fields of blood, 

Like this of Marston Moor ! 

Full well my tongue rehearses 
Brave Greek and Latin verses, 
But glad I'd put such prating by 

If thus I might secure 
To be but three years older, 
To stand with gun on shoulder, 
And strike for holy England's right 

One good blow strong and sure 
Beside my sire, on such a field 

As this of Marston Moor ! 

65 



AUDREY, OF YORK. 

A. D. 1644. 

Swift with the dexterous needle, 

Slow with the clumsy pen, 
Poor in the knowledge of books, 

But rich in the knowledge of men ; 
Learned in housewife lore, 

Skilled as nurse and as leech, 
Pure and sweet in the soul, 

Strong and true in the speech — 
Many a Master of Arts 

Could Audrey the Puritan teach. 

Wholesome in person and taste, 

Prudent and formal and kind, 
Swift of temper and wit, 

Slow of fancy and mind, 
Lofty and proud with the rich, 

Humble and fond with the low, 
Loving and leal to the friend, 

Haughty and fierce to the foe — 
Blessed and fair is the land 

Where maidens like Audrey shall grow. 
66 




GIDEON, OF TAVISTOCK. 




AUDREY, OF YORK. 



GABRIELLE, OF TOULON. 

A. D. I72O. 

O the court of the king ! 
Only to tread in its measures, 
Only to join in its pleasures, 
Feel its bright witchery round me, 

Take what its riches can give ! 
Here may be love true and tender, 
ikit the dull weight of this splendor 
Hangs like a fetter about me ; 

There at the court one could live ! 

Fleetly my fancy takes wing ! 
Here is but dullness and duty ; 
There is the glamour of beauty. 
Here is but sameness and longing, 

There all that gladness can bring. 
Here drag the wearisome hours ; 
There dance the days through the flowers- 
O but to breathe of their fragrance 

At the beautiful court of the king ! 
71 



ANDRE, OF PARIS. 

A. D. I720. 

To-day we ride to the hawking, 

In the forest of Fontainebleau, 
I at the king's right hand 

With his hooded bird on my fist, 
And the train of Ladies and Lords 

On palfreys curveting slow, 
Or bounding through hedgerow and field 

Whither their fancies list, 
And falcons with silver bells 

Leashed at pommel and wrist. 

And the hollowed-eyed, hungry canaille 

Will gather to see us pass ; 
Little we care for their silence 

And less for their muttering cries — 
While the ladies' silken gowns 

Will brush the dew from the grass, 
As they listen to sonnet and song 

In praise of their lips and their eyes, 
And the murmur of joy repeats 

The laugh of the summer skies. 
V- 




GABRIELLE, OF TOULON. 




ANDRE, OF PARIS. 



JONATHAN, OF BOSTON. 

A. D. I813. 

And so the Shannon in battle 

Has taken the Chesapeake, 
With Lawrence her brave commander 

Mortally hurt in the fight ! 
Well, let them joy in their spoil ; 

Poor are our people and weak, 
But poorer and weaker before, 

We forced them to yield us our right, 
And the soul of a nation is stronger 

Than armor or sinew of might ! 

Often my Gran'ther has told 

The tale of the olden time, 
The starving at Vallev Forge, 

The battle-fields piled with slain, 
The marching a-thirst and a-cold, 

The story of deeds sublime ; 
Let England forget, an' she will, 

The record they wrote so plain, 
The land they bought with their blood 

Shall never be hers again ! 

77 



DOROTHY, OF PHILADELPHIA. 

A. D. l8l2. 

Come hither, child, this minute, 
And leave that jingling spinnet, 
There's no such music in it 

As these rumors strange and new ! 
This talk of warlike nations, 
And hostile declarations, 
These calls for arms and rations — 

Is there no part for you 
But routs and balls, when Freedom calls 

For loyal hearts and true ? 

Call Nancy as she paces 
The minuet's slow graces, 
Bid Patty from her laces, 

Her patches and her frills ; 
We need the time they're spending 
For making and for mending, 
For knitting and for tending, 

For ready hands and wills, 
'Till Peace once more from shore to shore 

Makes glad our happy hills. 
78 




JONATHAN, OF BOSTON. 



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